You Can't Blame a Ghost
by gh0st bones
Summary: It's two years after Johnny's death - the catalyst to the life Ally never thought she would be living. A life none of them thought they would be living, but no matter how hard you fight to get out, you fight to be different, you're still an east sider. And on the east side, you never win. Rated M for language, substance abuse, sensitive themes.
1. the cherry on a cigarette

There was still a little scar on the back of her hand, cradled by porcelain skin and pale fawn freckles. It was the size of the cherry on a cigarette, shiny in the sunlight and dabbled with pink. Her brothers thought she'd done it to herself, the same way she'd put the crisscrossing spider webs up her left arm two winters ago. All her friends thought Joe did it by accident when he was drunk, because that's what she told them when they asked. Sometimes Christie had a look in her eye, a look that said _I know where that's really from_, but it had neither been confirmed nor denied with her best friend.

But he knew. He'd whisper it in her ear while she tried to sleep. It had been a rough time for all of them but he'd handled it worse than anyone. Everyone suspected afterwards that maybe he and Johnny had been in love secretly, the way he was taking it so goddamn hard like that. The way he turned cold and angry and was either blowing up or locking himself in a bathroom to cry and spark a joint.

It had sizzled when it touched her skin. He held her twelve year old hand tight. Told her calmly, "it's fine. Don't worry. I love you." The room was lit by candlelight and it was hot. Her skin glistened with sweat even though it was December, and his cold grey eyes were all that she could focus on – until he pressed the lit cigarette to her, right between the tendons of her first and second fingers.

He let go of her hand fast so he could clap his over her mouth. "Don't scream, don't scream, don't scream Ally," he breathed. "Don't scream Ally 'cause people will come runnin' an' then you're gonna have to tell them what you did."

Two weeks before that he hanged himself from the rafters in one of the abandoned warehouses by the train yard. So she didn't see anything in telling anyone the truth about it now. You couldn't blame a ghost for burning your hand with a lit cigarette. And you couldn't blame him, either, for why you couldn't sleep at night. Or why you weren't allowed to handle the knives alone anymore.


	2. fair play

Under the buzzing glare of the only streetlamp not broken out in the parking lot of what was The Dingo a year and a half ago, Graham Evans passed a tiny baggy of white sugar into the waiting hand of Darrel Curtis. Darrel slipped the baggy into his pocket, reemerging with a folded bundle of cash for Graham to put into the pocket of his denim vest.

"Thanks," Darrel said.

Graham lit up a cigarette and replied, "hey, no problem man. Anytime."

Ally watched it from the passenger seat of the sleek black 1950 Mustang hardtop as if it were a movie. She knew that what was in the little plastic bag wasn't sugar but it sure looked like it. Every time Graham or Joe would melt it down in a tiny tinfoil meat pie cup and mix it with water all she could think of were the science experiments that Christie liked to do, to see how much salt or sugar or baking soda you could dissolve in milk and then trick Two-Bit into drinking it.

Her brother was trashy, she knew that. Especially watching him like this, with his bleached yellow hair – the black was growing out at the roots – cut in a flopped over Mohawk, the piercings on his face and ears, tattoos on his fingers. He looked nothing like Joe or Ally, who both had thick dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, and were pale where Graham was tan and dark with emerald eyes. Most likely they had a different daddy, but they never met their dad anyway so it wasn't like it was that big of a deal. When mum died, they hadn't even bothered looking for him.

When he sat down in the driver's seat Graham passed the cigarette to his little sister so he could start the car and peel out of the lot in a roar because he hadn't bothered to replace the broken muffler. She took a long drag, leaving nude coloured lipstick behind on the yellow filter.

"Now don't you go runnin' to your little fuckin' friends tellin' them this shit," Graham instructed in his partly slurred, mostly British accent that was wearing off slow since being in America for five years. "Darry's a good guy, he don't need this shit all around town."

"I'm not going to tell anyone, Graham," Ally said with a roll of her eyes, passing the cigarette back over. There was enough for two more drags before he tossed it out the window onto the hot summer blacktop.

They pulled into the driveway at a quarter past midnight and all the lights were still on in the two-storey Victorian that was falling apart at the seams. Graham slammed the door behind him, swearing under his breath, "the fuckin' kid, I tell him to turn the lights off, he ain't the one payin' the bills is he?" Ally trailed behind him, far enough to stay out of his wake and not get backlash but close enough that she could make sure he wasn't going to go beat Joe's head in for good this time.

When they got to the wraparound porch Ally paused, let Graham go in ahead and let the screen door swing shut loudly behind him. His shouting started immediately – both Evans boys had anger problems – and Joe could be heard trying to defend himself in a low, bored tone. He was probably baked out of his mind.

It was gorgeous outside at night. Even their neighbourhood, all the houses with broken windows and unkempt lawns, fences leaning left and right, weeds poking up through cracked sidewalk. The paint was peeling from the porch swing but Ally liked to sit in it anyway, light another cigarette, feel the porous wood on her bare thighs. Short shorts were in this year, with high waists and high heels. Usually she just wore her dusty white tennis shoes because Graham thought that fourteen was too young to wear high heels. Graham said that if you weren't at least sixteen before you starting wearing high heels that you would probably end up being a hooker. And Graham knew just about everything.

The faintest hint of a summer breeze was rustling the leaves of the trees behind the house. All the houses on this side of the road backed onto greenbelt, thick forest that kids got high in and teenagers lost their virginities in. It was where Two-Bit Mathews took her to teach her how to smoke, and how to kiss, and to tell her stories of Johnny Cade because she hadn't really known him that well. Ponyboy didn't start letting her tag along with his gang willingly until just a few months ago, because he didn't want her hanging around Angela Shepard so much anymore. She was like a little sister to the lot of them – a pain in the butt, bratty little sister that no one wanted around but no one wanted in trouble, either.

She could hear his voice in the wind. He used to laugh a lot in the beginning but she couldn't even remember what that sounded like. She could remember sitting on the porch swing listening to him talk about how he held off five Socs all on his own with just the trusty switchblade that the cops took from Dallas when he almost got shot to death after a rumble. He was drinking a lot by then so she wasn't sure if he was talking out his ass or if he really had been something impressive once.

"Allison! You've got homework to do, that was the deal, aye? I take you for McDonald's if you do your goddamn homework."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming." She stubbed out the cigarette she could hardly remember lighting and tossed it over the railing, into the dirt patch that ran all the way around the house. It was supposed to be a garden, but nothing grew there anymore.

Joe had a real nice black eye forming when Ally got to the kitchen table with her history text book and note papers. His head was shaved down fresh again in a buzzcut you could barely see, and his nose – long, kind of bumped on the bridge and bent from how many times it had been broken – was dripping a little red.

"Did Graham break your nose again?"

"Aye. Fucker." Joe mumbled a few more expletives that were drowned out by the screeching of the kettle. "You want any of this?"

"Yes, please." Ally flipped open her textbook to the middle and started writing down the questions and answers she had to have done for Monday. School was only a week and a half from being out but teachers never stopped giving homework. They'd already gotten their summer reading list. Half the books were still around the house from when Joe had to do them, but the others they'd have to pick up at second hand shops, or take out from the school library and hide from her brothers so they didn't get ruined. Last time she had to pay almost three dollars in fines from Joe getting a hold of her rented books.

"Ponyboy came around while you were out. Said he'd stop back later but it doesn't look like he did. Better off anyway, you weren't home."

"Was Curly over?"

Joe shrugged. "Yeah. For a bit. Left a while ago though. Didn't want Graham seeing him."

"Fair play. You wanna help me with this?"

Joe dropped two tea bags into the ceramic mugs and poured in the steaming water. Almost immediately the smell of peppermint filled the small kitchen. "I don't know that shit, you know that."

"I guess. Can I go over to Ponyboy's then? He'll know." Ponyboy knew everything when it came to school. He ran track and got straight A's and could explain dates and times and people better than anyone she'd ever met before. Where her brother Graham was the be all and end all in street smarts, Ponyboy was the same with book smarts.

And, she guessed, he had a lot of street smarts too.

Joe said, "Yeah. I'll give this cup to Graham then."

Ally hopped off the chair and gathered her books together to shove back in her book bag upstairs. She pulled on a zip-up sweatshirt too because it was starting to feel a little chilly out, even though it was the beginning of June. Summer was creeping in at a slow crawl this year, hot in the day but dropping by nighttime so that you couldn't take midnight swims yet or go have a drink in the park at three in the morning.

She didn't see Graham at all on her way out the door, which was probably for the best because he hated her going out alone in the dark. Especially on Friday nights when everyone was getting rowdy. It seemed pretty dead this Friday though. Everyone was preparing their heads, livers, and wallets for the party of the year at Buck Merrill's on Saturday night. It was a celebration of almost the entire Shepard gang getting out of jail from the run-in they'd had with the last of the Tiber Street Tigers. There were no more Tiber Street Tigers anymore, but also not enough evidence to tie the Shepard outfit to the disappearances.

Graham made her swear she wouldn't go, but he never showed up to those places.

Ponyboy Curtis lived with his brothers in a small blue rancher just a street over and four houses down. It used to be the place where you could find anyone in the gang if you had to – Johnny and Pony were just about always together. Same with Sodapop and Steve Randle, and if they weren't working then they were either out with girls or in the Curtis living room cheating anyone they could out of as many cigarettes as possible in one poker game. Darry was there too if he wasn't at work, and Dallas Winston – who scared the bejesus out of her – liked to come by and sit on the couch and smoke like a chimney for a little bit.

Two-Bit used to be a part of those poker games too. That's how she met him in the first place. She didn't like poker much.

All the lights were off in the Curtis house when she got there though. She knocked but no one came to the door, no one yelled from inside for someone else to get it, and there wasn't even a trace of footsteps or the smell of cigarettes. Probably Curly stopped by and got Ponyboy when Joe kicked him out.

Christie was usually good with history too but Ally knew that she was out with Angela tonight. They'd gotten dates with two fairly handsome boys from out of town – nice boys, who were here visiting relatives and probably had no clue what the difference between a Soc and a greaser was. It was beyond her how Angela Shepard had snagged a boy who had all his teeth and wore long sleeves with a collar, but that girl usually got everything she wanted anyway.

"Well, fuck," Ally said loudly because she wasn't allowed to say it at home. She stayed on the porch long enough to light another cigarette before jumping the steps and heading back towards home.

The minute she hit the sidewalk a dark green Ford Sedan pulled up beside her. The passenger window rolled down revealing Curly Shepard. His older brother Tim was in the driver's seat, and she could see Ponyboy in the backseat.

"You lookin' for someone?" Curly asked good-naturedly. He'd always been nice to her, as a friend of Ponyboy's and the little sister of his buddy Joe. Not to mention how often she used to spend time in Angela's bedroom with a towel pushed up against the bottom of the door, getting high and giggling and gossiping. Tim scared the crap out of her though – brooding and dark, tattooed and dangerous. He was the leader of the Shepard outfit, and with or without evidence he was the ringleader in the complete depletion of the Tigers.

"Yeah," Ally replied, trying to sound calm. He really put her on edge with the way he was staring at her, studying her face with eyes as dark and intense as the stormiest, deepest seas. "Ponyboy. I wanted help with history."

Curly threw open his door and leaned the seat forward. "We're just goin' to Lacy's. Get in."

She did. Lacy's was the greaser diner now, since they'd all but been chased off the entire Ribbon by the Socs. It was dangerous to be seen there – the truce from the death of Bob and Johnny only lasted a few months, maybe a year at most. It was worse than ever, like it had all been boiling underneath the surface waiting to explode.

Now it had.


	3. why don't you make me

He ignored the knock on the door – it was small and confident, a tiny fist that had knocked on their door time and time again over the past year. He didn't put down the lit cigarette between his fingers or the letter clenched in the other hand.

It had a seal on the top, and underneath it said his name in crisp, clean typewriter taps - _Sodapop Patrick Curtis_ – and a few lines down it told him where to go and when to be there. That if he wasn't there, the action that would be taken against him as a deserter of his country. This was an honour – a call to duty. Something he could be proud of, and when he came home they'd be proud of him in return.

Except that he wasn't proud. He wasn't a man, lying on his back with tear streaks down his face two hours old. It wasn't a man in this bed, shirtless in blue jeans and sockless with a summer tan already starting across a hairless chest. He was a boy and he wasn't ready to go to war. Not yet – not ever.

Ponyboy was out with his friends, with Curly Shepard and that whole gang. He'd started spending a lot more time with that Shepard kid lately, now that Johnny wasn't around anymore. Soda didn't like it, but who was going to be around to make sure he didn't get too in over his head? Darry was working a lot more than he used to to try and scrounge together at least the start of a college fund. He was too busy building Ponyboy's future to even think about his present.

They'd be paying Sodapop enough to put Pony through college. They weren't going to be proud when he told them. He'd had the letter for a week and hadn't said a word – they weren't going to be fucking proud of him.

Sodapop Curtis, the king of Vietnam.

* * *

Ally slid into the blue vinyl booth beside Ponyboy and put her book bag between them on the seat. Curly sat on the other side and waved the waitress over with a whistle and a crook of his index finger. He was missing the last third of his eyebrow, she noticed when he turned his head, and in its place was shiny, pink skin gnarled all the way to his temple. Like someone had held a match to his face. Her stomach rolled painfully – water was all she could order.

While the boys talked and waited for food and drinks, Ally scanned the diner. It was mostly empty, save for the one waitress and a group of six sitting at a table by the emergency exit door. They all looked too well dressed to be on this side of town, with pastel sweaters and brown slacks. The girls had their hair done up nice and barely had any makeup on at all – were they lost, or visitors? Since when did Socs come all the way out here?

She almost choked on her water when she realized who they were.

"Angela? Christie?"

The girls at the table froze, then slowly stood up and walked towards the booth. It definitely was Angela and Christie, in short skirts and long-sleeve, tight plaid button ups. Their faces looked almost fresh, just mascara and blush and a little bit of nude eye shadow.

"Ally, what are you doing here – with Curly?" Angela asked, sneering at her older brother. In turn, Curly had a huge, amused grin on his face. Ponyboy's cheeks were red, and he was busying himself with the hamburger that had been put down on the table in front of him.

"They picked me up when I was looking for Pony. What the hell are you wearing?"

Christie had the good manners to blush, at least. Not like Angela, who was wearing her Soc costume like a badge of honour. No wonder they'd been able to snag such Ken dolls – they'd been running around dressed to the nines and no one had even noticed.

"They took us on a nice date," Christie said quietly. "They said we should look nice."

The boys at the table were all shifting in their seats, getting up and putting down money to cover the bill. There was nothing threatening that Ally could see in the way they moved, but Curly and Ponyboy got up too, coming to stand on either side of Ally like flank guards.

"You look fuckin' ridiculous, Angel," Curly laughed, flicking at a curly tendril that had fallen out of the wild bun at the nape of her neck. She slapped at his hand but missed by a mile, long crimson fingernails swiping at nothing but air.

The boys came to stand with Christie and Angela. It was like a battle zone, and the first person to cross the imaginary line between them would set off the bomb. The tallest one put his thick, muscled arm around Angela's waist and glared haughtily at the three greasers in front of him.

"Are we gonna have a problem here, buddy?"

"Oh, look at this!" Curly called animatedly. "We got some Canadians here, don't we? What are you fine fellows doin' this far away from home?" There was a threat in his light, airy tone, impossible to miss.

"Just trying to have a nice night out," a blonde one said, crossing his arms. "Why don't you get out of our way?"

Curly smiled devilishly. "Why don't you make me?"

So the blonde took a swing at him.

Ally ducked out of the way, backing up before she got caught in the crosshairs. Christie and Angela did the same, running around the perimeter of what was turning into a very uneven fist fight in the middle of the diner. Ponyboy joined in – because you had to have your friend's back, or what good were you? – zeroing in and jumping on the tall one who'd been Angela's date. Angela had tried to date Ponyboy a while back, but it hadn't turned out, and thank God for that.

"Curly, stop it!" Angela screamed from the sidelines. Ally barely recognized the girl standing beside her. Any other time Angela would be in the thick of it, throwing punches at her brother's head until he got dizzy and backed off. That's how she acted any other time her brother got into a fight with her boyfriend of the week, but this was different. This was Angela trying to make a good impression. This was Angela trying to hide that she was a greaser. She wasn't so furiously proud anymore.

Curly and Ponyboy seemed to be holding their own well enough, while the waitress called 911 on the phone in the kitchen, until blondie pulled a revolver from the waistband of his slacks.

"Stan!" Christie screamed through her own hand covering her mouth. Ally was frozen – she'd seen guns before, even held one once, but never had she watched one being shot. And that was what it looked like Stan wanted to do as he aimed it somewhere towards Curly Shepard's chest.

Now Angela was lunging forward, but Ally and Christie grabbed her arms and pulled her back, towards the front door and onto the dark street. She wouldn't stop screaming for Curly, or calling out names of the other boys in the group that Ally didn't care to remember. She didn't want to listen at all. Tears stung at her eyes but she held them back – you didn't cry on the east side. On the east side you pulled your hysteric friend down the road, half running and half stumbling, while shots echoed loud through the neighbourhood and glass shattered behind them.

"He's gonna kill Curly," Angela shouted. Her hair had come out of its pristine updo and was a wild mess all around her paled face.

At the corner of Sutton and Fernway the three separated. Angela and Christie turned down Fernway – they were going to take the alleyway behind the Young Street Market and make it to the Shepard house in an easy five minute run. Ally kept up Sutton, running until her lungs burned and her legs felt like rubber. If she kept going this way she could swing by the DX and get a ride home from Steve if he was still there. The gasoline station was only open until eight o'clock, but the garage light was usually on until almost midnight.

It was just past the bus stop that Ally barreled straight into Sodapop Curtis' chest.

* * *

He parked the truck in the DX station's lot, around the back in the employee spots, and lit a cigarette once he was past the gasoline pumps. Originally he'd wanted to talk to Steve, tell his best friend before anyone else, but all the lights were off and the doors were locked.

Everything seemed dull, uninteresting – what once would have caught the eighteen year old's sparkling brown eyes was now sliding by like a show he'd seen one too many times. And Sodapop Curtis didn't even like movies in the first place.

Steve was nineteen – had been for a couple months now. He was a man, with hair on his chest and fire in his belly. Steve loved a fight, was going to love toting a gun and a helmet and a patch on his arm so everyone knew what country to send his body back to when he died. Sodapop hadn't heard of anyone coming back from Vietnam yet, not anyone they knew at least.

Steve Randle got his draft notice on his nineteenth birthday. Most kids got theirs at eighteen but Steve was still in school. They'd caught Sodapop right on time though, because he didn't turned nineteen until October and he'd be long gone by then.

Two shots in the distance – Sodapop was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't even realize they were real until a little blonde rocket bounced so hard off his chest it dropped both of them on their butts on the pavement.

She scrambled up off the ground before he could stand up and offer her his hand. This was a little girl he'd seen many times before, hanging around with Ponyboy or with Christie, being a general bother; Two-Bit had taken her under his wing like another big brother for a while, but she didn't seem to like talking about that too much. They all guessed she just missed him – it hurt to think about him. It hurt for all of them.

Would he miss her? Yes – he decided. She always smelled like flowers and sunshine, if it even had a smell, and her laugh made him laugh. She was growing up real pretty too, he had to admit. The way her mouth moved, lips thick and pale, while she spoke rapid fire words he wasn't listening to make his blood rush a little.

It wasn't until she screamed his name and grabbed his white t-shirt that he came back down to Earth.

"A bunch of Socs from Canada pulled a gun on Pony and Curly in Lacy's! Jesus Christ Sodapop listen to me!"

But he didn't really have to. Not two seconds later they heard whooping laughs and shoes on pavement – Ponyboy and Curly were running as fast as they could up the street, and no one was following them. At first they both looked fine, if not scared and full of adrenaline. As they got closer Ally and Sodapop could see the cuts and bruises forming on their faces and the busted knuckles on their clenched fists. It wasn't until they slowed down and came to a stop that everyone could see the blood dripping fast down Curly's arm, soaking a crimson patch on his denim jacket.

"Kid, we gotta get you to the hospital," Sodapop said, smiling and cuffing Curly around the head. "You two good to walk home?"

"Yeah," Ponyboy said, breathing heavy and trying not to grin. Ally watched Sodapop quizzically – his eyes were dark and his smile didn't reach them, not even close.

"Be careful," he told Ponyboy seriously, then pulled Ally in for a lazy one-arm hug. "You too, Evans. I don't need Graham on my ass on top of everythin' else."

"You got it, Soda." She saluted clumsily and he almost looked sick.

Sodapop half-dragged Curly Shepard all the way back to the DX and into the passenger seat of the truck. Darry would have his head on a block if he knew that he'd let Ponyboy and Allison walk home alone, at night, after a shooting, but he couldn't take them all in the truck, there just wasn't enough room. Pony was a tough kid now, tougher than Soda really liked. He could take care of himself and Ally for ten minutes.

"Fuckin' Socs everywhere," Curly swore, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the half open window. He'd lost his good natured façade the second Sodapop shut the door for him. His arm was on fire, boiling down to his fingertips and up to his throbbing head. He'd taken quite a beating even after the gun had gone off – he wasn't going to admit it, but he and Ponyboy sure weren't the winners. "Can't get away from 'em anywhere."

Soda could think of a place or two.

"Some nice young gents down from _Toronto_," he announced, then spit blood out the window. It was dotted red on his cigarette, but that didn't stop him from smoking it. "Takin' my sister an' that Matthews kid on a nice date. How my dipshit kid sister got a guy like that wrapped 'round her finger, beats me," he added.

The two young men in the truck were quiet the rest of the ride, but when they pulled into the hospital parking lot, Curly said, "I don't wanna bother with this shit. Just take me home." But he was feeling lightheaded and his words slowly slurred, and secretly he was thankful that Sodapop Curtis hauled him out onto his feet on the pavement and didn't listen to a word he said all the way up until he handed him over to the nurses at the front desk.

* * *

Ponyboy walked with Ally all the way to the corner of her street. They talked the whole way, first about the scene in the diner, and then when that got old and there was nothing left to add, Ally asked a few questions about her history homework. That turned into a verbal beating for Mr Frond, the history teacher at Tulsa Middle, who had been there since the dawn of time and hadn't bothered cracking an updated textbook since.

Almost all the lights were off in the house, she could see that from the end of the street. Only Graham's light was on, and that meant that if she strolled through the door now she was in for a world of trouble if he saw her face – he'd know right away that she hadn't been just studying over at the Curtis'. Graham knew everything.

"Hey," Ponyboy said, studying her face. He knew a lot, too. "You wanna come over? It's still early. Darry bought cocoa, we could make hot chocolate."

"Yes," Ally smiled, clapping her hands together once. "Please."

* * *

It was late by the time Sodapop came through the front door. He could tell that Darry wasn't there already by the absence of his brother's truck in the driveway – they both had their own now, since Sodapop saved up little by little until he was able to grab something cheap off auction and fix it up with Steve.

The door to the bedroom he used to share with his brother was closed. Sodapop had since moved himself into the little bedroom Ponyboy used to keep for his own since his little brother was getting better at sleeping every night.

In the living room the television was on, quietly playing the twenty-four hour news channel. A gruff looking man with neatly parted white hair was speaking about black rights issues, and the light was casting a glow on the face of the little blonde passed out on the sofa under the quilt that, up until tonight, had been thrown across Sodapop's own mattress.

She looked a lot smaller in her sleep. She didn't look like her brothers, who were rough and angry and didn't seem to want to be happy no matter where they were. She didn't sound like a prim little British daughter trying to speak American, trying not to stand out so badly.

On the coffee table were two mugs half full with hot chocolate that probably hadn't turned out very well since Darry had spaced on buying sugar again. He was forgetting a lot of things lately, not coming home much, allotting money to his youngest brother when he could be home and making sure the two hadn't killed themselves or each other yet before disappearing again. He was still going to work, that was clear, because he was paying bills and Soda had seen him on roofs a couple times here and there. But his face was lined and his eyes looked a little sunken lately. He couldn't take care of Ponyboy anymore – good thing Pony was getting better at taking care of himself.

Sodapop flipped off the television set, picked the cups up and brought them to the kitchen sink. He wanted to sit down in the armchair, read the newspaper and wind down, but he couldn't bring himself to disturb Ally, not even slightly. She looked so peaceful and happy, and that was something not a lot of kids got on the east side.

He didn't know what possessed him – he'd always been reckless, but now it felt like he truly had nothing to worry about, he'd be gone soon, off to be a hero – but he leaned down and kissed Ally as lightly as possible on her temple. Smooth skin, silky hair against his lips. He smiled when he stood back up and headed down the hall to his room, the first real smile in a long time, even if it only did last a minute or two – only until he saw that draft notice still lying crinkled on his desk.

Had Ponyboy seen it when he'd gone in to take the quilt? Sodapop hoped not as he undressed and curled up underneath the bed sheet. He'd feel betrayed that Soda had known so long and not told, but it just wasn't the right time yet.


End file.
